


Unholy

by supurbangothic



Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - All Media Types, Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Genre: (surprise surprise), Introspection, M/M, jacky boy is havin some hard times adjusting, tyler comes back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:48:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supurbangothic/pseuds/supurbangothic
Summary: "I’m not Tyler Durden here. I’m not anyone. It’s not like how it used to be, a never ending loop of cubicle to living room that left me droolingly brain dead but so very much awake. Now, I’m a ghost. No cubicle, no living room. My life exists as a one-room apartment and walking the streets at night. I don’t sleep, but I can at least think through the exhaustion. I’m fine, being no one. Sometimes, it’s enough to make me forget being Tyler Durden."In which our beloved Narrator tries to get on with his life after the events of Fight Club. Oneshot, might post a sequel.





	Unholy

The filthy window next to me rattles as the elevated train carves it’s path through the city, a few feet from my new shithole apartment. It must be 3:15. The apartment isn’t as bad as Paper Street was, there’s less structural damage and more neighbors, and the ceiling doesn’t drip, but I still feel like I’ve been ripped off. I’m able to take a hot shower for the first time in months, but I’d give that up to fill the clean-cut silence that even the bustling noise of the inner city can’t penetrate. It’s a silence punctuated by an absent bedroom, an empty space that used to be a crooked smile and the smell of smoke.

Black coffee burns my tongue and the pain is like scratching an itch, the memory of warm copper on my tongue and in my throat. The holes in my cheeks have started to heal, but the wide carnie smile is still there.

A few weeks ago, a little girl at the Komer Mart saw my face and began to cry. I couldn’t say why, but I was glad. And when the cashier with the split lips and a broken nose winked at me and called me ‘sir,’ I thought of the little girl, and I bared my teeth in a sort-of smile. The hole winked back at him, and the unsettled glint in his eye was enough to have me whistling as I left with my meager groceries.

It wasn’t long before the steady stream of people calling me by Tyler’s name started to make me sick. It festered low in my gut until I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to get away from there. Away from Paper Street, away from the whole god damn bunch. The apartment is in a new city, in a flat state with a flat accent. Tyler would hate it for its suburbs and college-funded art museums, and I can’t say I entirely enjoy it myself. But it’s far away from Project Mayhem and Marla, who wasn’t all that friendly after I tried to explain that “no offense,” but the connection I had to her was cordial at best. I’m not Tyler Durden here. I’m not anyone. It’s not like how it used to be, a never ending loop of cubicle to living room that left me droolingly brain dead but so very much awake. Now, I’m a ghost. No cubicle, no living room. My life exists as a one-room apartment and walking the streets at night. I don’t sleep, but I can at least  _ think  _ through the exhaustion. I’m  _ fine,  _ being no one. Sometimes, it’s enough to make me forget being Tyler Durden.

If only forgetting my own loneliness were that easy. The walls of the apartment are bare and the furniture is miniscule. No IKEA coffee table or power bikes or dish sets with the little imperfect bubbles. No flooding basements or bare wiring or bags of liposuctioned fat in the freezer. There’s a futon, an armchair, a mini fridge, a table, and a filthy window facing towards the elevated train. The train, filled with commuters running over the city like ants; rushing out to do some holiday shopping, rushing to pick up their bratty kids, rushing home from a day of work. I can’t remember the last time I went to work. Tyler may be dead, but his name opens doors whenever I need. A free meal, a new set of clothes. A wink and a wave of the hand. Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Durden. For you, it’s free. I would correct them, but there’s that saying about gifts and horses.

 

I sort of knew it was only a matter of time, but the buzzing of the doorbell makes a part of me want to taste the metal of a gun barrel again. It’s her, of course it is. How she found me, I’ll never know, but I look out the window and sure enough. Marla Singer is standing on the steps of my building, smoking a cigarette and staring at my doorbell like it killed her beloved mother. Rough, careless and accompanied by a smoky haze. My very own tumor. Crooked smile and wild hair. The bell rings once, twice more before going silent. I don’t move from my seat by the window. I watch her walk away. She doesn’t look back, and a sick satisfaction curls in my chest. She was always Tyler’s prize, amused by me but ultimately bored from the break in mayhem. Watching her leave, it feels like I’ve been freed from something. I stand and go to the kitchen cabinet.

Fuck. Out of coffee.

 

Fluorescent lights no longer make my head pound behind the eyes, the ruptures and cracks in my skull finally healed from a few months without fight club. Which means I’m not squinting in the harsh light when I turn into the coffee aisle, so there’s no mistaking the garrish red jacket and the glint of sunglasses nestled in wild blonde hair. Crooked smile, steel blue eyes.

I am Jack’s unholy relief.

“He lives!” He holds his arms out, and for a fraction of second I want to embrace him. I think he knows this, because there’s something in his eye that I’ve seen only a few times before. But instead, I drive a fist into that crooked grin and relish the crack of bone and the spurt of blood.

“That’s my line,” I say, grinning even though I may be sick. Tyler Durden laughs as I help him off the floor.


End file.
